Epiphany

"Why did she marry him? She married him out of love. She married him out of guilt; out of fear of being alone; out of patriotism." ~Michael Cunningham, The Hours

May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.

The office was dark and quiet and empty, although it was barely after 6 pm. Erin moved through the BAU bullpen, the tidy desks seeming so foreign without their usual inhabitants and piles of paperwork and files. The team was half a continent away, working on a child abduction, and they'd been gone for two whole days now.

She missed him. Her body physically ached at his absence, a new development that was at once exhilarating and frightening. She'd never felt this way for anyone—hell, she'd never even felt this way for him in the past. The day had been filled with enough distraction to keep her thoughts of him at bay, but now the work was done and the absence of him flooded her body with a strange swelling, as if she might float away without his touch to ground her.

Silly, stupid girl, chided her inner voice, which always sounded oddly like her mother. You opened Pandora's Box and now you're wondering why it feels like hell.

She briefly wondered if she had a brain tumor. That would be the most logical explanation for why she'd so suddenly and so completely changed into this trembling ball of need and want, always anxiously awaiting his next appearance, his next touch, his next word, his next smile, the next breath for her feverish lungs, the next supply for this strange addiction that had lain dormant for over 20 years.

It was with a sense of frightening clarity that Erin Elaine Breyer Strauss realized that for the first time in her entire life, she was truly, madly, deeply in love.

The realization brought a strange mixture of emotions. Part of Erin was happy to know that, after all these years, she truly wasn't as defective as she'd thought—she was capable of passion, capable of desire and tenderness and love and lust all mixed together in a heady concoction. Another part of her was saddened to realize that if she was capable of such feelings, then she'd never felt them towards Paul, which made her wonder: why hadn't she felt this way about her husband of twenty-nine years? Of all the men who deserved her love and devotion, of all those truly worthy of only her deepest and best, Paul Strauss had been the one.

Maybe Erin was simply looking at it the wrong way. Maybe love wasn't about being worthy or deserving. Maybe it wasn't about that at all.

She really hoped that was true. She didn't deserve David's love and devotion, but the thought of being without it filled her with a deep, mind-searing panic that filled every fiber of her being.

At the same time, she felt a wave of sadness for Paul—for how her skewed perception of love had kept him a prisoner for years, how her sense of duty had robbed them both of years of passion and potential happiness with another person, how once again she'd actually done more harm than good, when all she'd wanted was to make that deserving man happy.

Just another thing for which to atone, she supposed. Gods, that list seemed to be growing every day.

October 2011. Vienna, Virginia.

The sound of the clock seemed to echo through the entire house, and it was so silent that Erin could even hear the tick-tick-ticking of the sprinkler system on the front lawn. Outside the sun shone; it was a beautiful, warm day, part of the Indian summer that had suddenly struck, but her hands felt like ice as she cautiously watched her husband pace around the living room.

It was one of those quiet Saturday afternoons when they had the entire house to themselves—normally Erin would lay out by the pool until she was happy and warm from the sun, then she would come back into the house, pull Paul from his study and back into their bed to make sleepy, gentle love, drifting into an afternoon nap before the kids returned.

But this was not a normal day. For weeks now, Paul had been distant and distracted—she'd assumed it was because of his latest project, and she quietly gave him the space he needed. Today, he'd haunted her steps around the house, acting strange and nervous, and the heavy weight of premonition had settled into her stomach when he finally told her that they needed to talk.

"Paul, whatever you have to say, please, just say it," she tried not to snap at him, though the irritation still shaded her voice. Her husband was generally not the timid, bumbling thing that stood before her now, and his sudden change in demeanor scared her.

He stopped pacing and sat down in the armchair (not next to her, on the couch).

"I can't do this anymore, Erin," he admitted, dropping his head in his hands.

"Do what?" She heard her own voice asking dumbly, although the pounding dread in her throat and chest already knew the answer.

"Us. Erin, I can't. Not anymore." His hands (usually so strong and sure and sheltering) quivered in a helpless gesture as he let out a deep sigh laced with unshed tears.

She felt like she'd been sucker-punched in the gut.

"Is it…is there someone else?" She regretted the words the instant they left her lips.

His eyes were filled with hurt, "I'm not that kind of person, Erin. You know that."

"I do. I do know that," she gently agreed, sensing the other silent half of Paul's comment—I'm not that kind of person, Erin, but you are. She'd never said anything about her affairs with David, and Paul never acted as if he suspected, but deep down, Erin had always felt that he must have known. Maybe he didn't. Maybe it was just her own guilty conscience.

"Then why? I thought—I thought we were happy," Erin finished lamely, knowing as she said them that they were, in fact, lies. They weren't happy. They hadn't been happy for quite some time, but they hadn't been fighting, either—they'd simply been drifting along, and to her, that was as close to happy as they'd ever be, so she was content. Until now, she thought that Paul was content as well.

"Erin," he took a deep breath. "I don't think I've really been happy since Anna Claire was little."

That confession was like a knife to his wife's heart, because so much of her life had been built around trying to make him happy (because he deserved to be happy, because even though she couldn't love him the same way he loved her, she had always wanted to make him happy). They'd chosen this house because he liked the location and the floor plans, Erin had borne him (two) children because he'd wanted to be a father, she'd sacrificed entire parts of her personality in order to become the pristinely perfect wife that he deserved (though she'd failed on that part, many times).

"I'm…I'm so sorry," she whispered, her gaze falling to the coffee table between them. She'd failed him so many times, in so many ways, and now she was faced with the fact that despite her attempts to rectify her inadequacies, it still wasn't enough. She'd failed yet again. She'd given so much, and yet, she could never give enough, could never give him what he truly needed, and that realization sent another pang of guilt and sadness through her chest.

"I know," her voice shook, and she took a moment to steel herself before continuing. "I know that I've never been good at…at talking about things, about being everything that you need, but I thought—I really thought that you were still happy—with me, with us, with the children, with our life together, I thought—"

"Why did you marry me?" Paul interrupted, his face completely impassive. Erin took a deep, unsteady breath. She knew that he wouldn't like what she had to hear, but he needed to know, and she would give him that—gods knew, he deserved that much.

"Because you asked me to." She replied simply, her grey-green eyes flicking upward and latching onto his blue ones. Her voice was gentle, etched with compassion, "You asked me to, and I knew that it would break your heart if I said no, and I never wanted to hurt you, so I said yes. And I thought that meant that I loved you, because…isn't that love? Wanting to spare someone from pain, wanting to do whatever it takes to make them happy—isn't that love?"

In that moment, Paul Christopher Strauss felt a wave of sadness crash over his soul—not for the confession (which, upon reflection, wasn't that startling), but for the confessor, the woman with the pleading eyes and the hurt expression, who truly couldn't comprehend the meaning of love.

"No, Erin," he said softly, reaching for her hand. "That's not love."

Confusion flooded her face as tears filled her eyes, "Then…then what were the last twenty-nine years about?"

She stood, her sorrow quickly morphing into anger as she gestured around the room—their home, the place they'd filled with memories and lived in and made love in and created children in and raised a family in and laughed and cried in. "What was all this? All these things, what did they mean? What was this, if it wasn't love?"

She was breathing heavily now, on the verge of hysteria (the fact that she'd already had a few glasses of wine probably didn't help the situation, Paul thought bitterly) as she moved around the room, picking up family photos as if she were showing exhibits to the jury in a trial, "Then what was this? And this? And why do we go to Boston every year for our anniversary? And why did you send flowers and write letters? All those nights, all those moments...what were all the fucking little moments for, if it wasn't love?!"

There was an awful, sickening silence as Paul simply looked down at the coffee table (the one they'd found at a little road-side bazaar on the way home from a weekend getaway, Erin remembered suddenly and painfully).

"I loved you, Erin," he said quietly, his eyes not meeting hers. The fact that he was using the past tense did not escape her scrutiny. "I loved the woman you were when we met. And when I asked you to spend the rest of our lives together, I thought that I would love every variation of the person you would become, every shade of you. And I did—I still do."

"Then why are you leaving?" She asked, her voice impossibly small and fragile.

"Because it hurts too much." He admitted, clasping his hands together. That wasn't enough of an explanation, and after she'd been so (brutally) honest with him, he knew that he had to afford her the same courtesy. "Erin, so much has happened these past few years—losing your mother, your father, the added stress of your job, the stuff with Andrew—"

"And you're upset because I've let that change me?" She felt another wave of anger rising deep within her chest. "It hurts too much to see that I'm not that happy-go-lucky girl from our university days?"

"No." Paul's voice was hard, stopping Erin mid-rant, and she felt a slight quiver of relief—there was her Paul, who was sure of himself, who knew what he meant, who knew how to push back whenever Erin pushed him. He took a deep breath, "It's not that you've been changed by these things. It's how you've decided to cope with them."

She felt the air leave her lungs. Paul knew that he'd hurt her with those words, had inadvertently called her weak and unstable, had accidentally triggered old alarms and old fears and failings deep within the woman he loved, and he regretted his choice of words.

He tried to soften the blow, "I understand that it can feel overwhelming sometimes—"

Her expression hardened as she gave a contemptuous snort, "You understand? How could you possibly understand? Both of your parents are still alive; your baby brother isn't wasting away with cancer, your job doesn't make you want to give up on humanity on a daily basis—tell me, Paul, how can you even begin to understand what I'm going through? How dare you judge me—how dare you—"

"This isn't a pissing contest, Erin—"

"Ah, yes, because anytime I mention the fact that I have had to deal with much harder things than you have, I'm somehow using it as a get-out-of-jail-free card." She rolled her eyes heavenward, the tears and frustration evident in her voice. "I can't even talk about what's happening in my life because you suddenly turn it into—"

"Our life." His voice was low, but it held enough weight to somehow be heard over Erin's. His blue eyes flickered upwards to meet her green ones. "It's our life, Erin. What happens to you, happens to me, and we go through it together, because all those years ago we got rid of the you and the me and everything became us."

She looked down at the floor. He took another deep breath, "That's the problem here, Erin. You're pulling away; you won't let me be a part of any of it. You say it's your life, your problems, and you shut me out. You discount the last thirty years like they mean nothing; you destroy everything we built by saying it isn't ours anymore."

He was right. She knew that he was right, and he knew that she knew it, too. Nine years ago, when her mother had died, Erin had slowly begun to pull away from Paul. The slow loss of her father to Alzheimer's had created an even wider gap between them over the past six years, and when he died earlier that summer, another wedge was put between them. Now Andrew, Erin's youngest brother, had informed the family that he'd been diagnosed with Stage III liver cancer, and Erin seemed to disappear completely. The problem was that she'd disappeared into the bottle—back into the hell that she'd walked away from just a few short months ago.

"Erin," he spoke her name like a prayer of supplication, like a drowning man calling out for a life line. He didn't want to leave; he didn't want to lose her, and he was throwing it all in on one last shot. "I'm watching you drift away...just like before. I can't lose you like that again, not this time. If you do that again, I don't think you'll come back."

Suddenly her bones melted with compassion for this man, for his quiet fears and his silent sufferings, all caused by her own selfishness and weakness. She moved towards him, her hands reaching as if she wanted to hold him, but she pulled back, "Darling, I'm not—I'm not drifting away again. I would never—I wouldn't put you through that again, you know that. It was just...that's all behind me now. I'm better; you know I am."

He shook his head sadly, "This is exactly how it started last time—you denied there was a problem, you swore you would never be that person, that you would never—"

"I went to rehab," she retorted, her voice hardening. "I did my 28 days, I did the whole AA thing—"

"You haven't been to a meeting in months—"

"But...but I'm better now," she offered helplessly. "I don't need the meetings."

"You're an alcoholic, Erin," he returned flatly. "You will always be an alcoholic. It's part of who you are; there isn't some magic cure—"

"I was weak then, but now I'm stronger," her voice rose a notch higher, as if she could force him to believe her simply by increasing her volume.

"It isn't about being strong, Erin—"

"Then what is it about, Paul?" She made his name sound like an insult.

"It's about realizing that you can't handle this on your own!" He was on his feet, throwing his arms out in a gesture of exasperation.

A beat passed. Erin folded her arms over her chest, looking very much like a stubborn child. Her chest and her cheeks were a deep stain of red, and Paul knew that if they weren't in this room, surrounded by breakable family heirlooms, she probably would have thrown something to exorcise her anger. She always was the more physically expressive of the two, and he was surprised that she hadn't already slammed her fist or pushed him.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Erin," he admitted with a heavy sigh.

Her anger broke as well, her hands covered her face as she sighed, too. "What do you want me to do?"

A part of Paul actually wanted to laugh at her simple question—Erin still believed that things were salvageable, that there was still something she could do to fix this.

Ever the die-hard, she did try to fix it, and it only made his heart ache all the more as she continued, "What do you—do you want me to let you go? Do you want me to fight for you? What do you want, Paul?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't know." It was true, and Erin knew it. He was just as lost and scared as she was.

She bit her lip, looking down at the floor again, "I never wanted to make you unhappy. You…you deserve so many things, and I tried to be those things, even when I knew that I could never really, truly be….and…and I'm sorry that I'm not, that I wasn't. I am so sorry. I never wanted this for you."

"I know," he answered simply, with a finality that struck Erin like the tolling of a funeral knell. There was a moment of heavy silence as they mourned the passing of what had been between them.

The stillness was broken by the sound of Anna crashing through the garage door. "Lucy, I'm home!"

"We'll finish discussing everything later," he promised, and she nodded, pulling back her shoulders and retreating into her armor as their youngest daughter bounced into the room.

That night, they began the quiet and painful process of slowly separating their hearts and emotions from one another, talking about things like apartments and who-keeps-the-house and how-do-we-tell-the-children and holidays and joint-custody in flat, lifeless, tired voices.

They decided to wait until after the holidays—it was already going to be painful enough for the children, after all that had happened during the past year—but Paul decided that he would take a small flat in the city and start spending more nights in D.C., as some form of a trial separation. They went to sleep, two strangers sharing a bed, and the next morning, Erin decided to start her day off with a glass of wine (because, hey, why not?).

Less than two months later, Erin was calling to ask Paul to stay at the house full-time again, because she was being checked into a 90 day treatment program, due to her actions on the Somerville Academy case. He quietly told her that he would stay, for Anna and for the other children, and as soon as Erin was allowed to have visitors, she found him patiently waiting in the receiving area, a small bouquet of tulips and a stack of her favorite books to help pass the time. His kindness and concern, despite everything that had happened between them, filled Erin with some gentle form of adoration, that familiar feeling of warmth that she'd always mistaken for love.

He truly was a good man. She truly didn't deserve him. And he certainly didn't deserve the hell she'd put him through, over all these years. He deserved to be loved—richly, deeply loved by a woman with gentler hands and a more stable personality, a woman with less angst and self-loathing, a woman who would and could love him in ways that Erin never had, a woman who would never commit such heinous crimes against his sweet and tender soul.

And so, just like that, she let him go.

May 2013. Gulfport-Biloxi International Airport, Mississippi.

"Yes, ma'am, we're getting ready to board the plane right now," Aaron Hotchner answered, glancing across the tarmac at the jet in question.

"Have a safe flight, Agent Hotchner," Erin's smooth voice came across the line again. "And let the team go home early today. I think they've earned it."

"I certainly will," he agreed, his dark eyes traveling back to his team, who all looked a little worse for wear. They'd found the missing child—alive, relatively unharmed—but the emotional and psychological toll of the past few days had begun to wear them down physically, and it showed. It was 8 am, and they'd be back in Quantico in a matter of hours, but Erin's suggestion of going home early sounded like a good plan. The idea of seeing Beth and Jack and finally sleeping in his own bed again was definitely an incentive to send everyone home the instant the plane landed in Virginia.

Less than thirty seconds after Hotch ended the call with Strauss, Dave's cell buzzed. Hotch fought back a grin as the older agent stepped away from the rest of the team, his voice dipping even lower as he answered. Derek Morgan seemed to be thinking the same thing as Hotch, because when he met his unit chief's eyes, he arched his eyebrows knowingly, and the two men shared a silent laugh at the strange change that had happened seemingly overnight between their section chief and their fellow agent.

Love was a many-splendored thing.

"Chris and Jordan are coming over tonight," Erin's voice was filled with a slight regret. Then she added quickly, "But you could still come over—they'd love to spend more time with you. I'll leave the office early, too, we'll spend the evening by the pool. You can unwind a bit."

David gave a soft smile, "Sounds good, bella."

"I won't be able to leave until around 4:30 or so," Erin immediately went into her command mode. "So you should go home and get some sleep after you land. I'll call you when I'm leaving."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Be safe. I love you."

"I love you, too, bella."

"It was a good day, wasn't it?" She asked hesitantly—she'd gotten a brief overview from Agent Hotchner, and she knew the child had been found alive, but she also knew that she didn't have all the details, and she wanted to make sure that none of those unknown facts had negatively affected her love.

He smiled again, understanding the concern behind her question and loving her all the more for it. "It was. I'll see you soon."

By the time he hung up, David had to jog to catch up with the others, who were already walking towards the jet. Morgan looked over at him with his usual coy grin.

Dave had given up trying to play the austere old man when it came to Morgan's hints about his relationship with Erin. He simply grinned, too, shaking his head as he said, "Don't even start."

"I didn't say a word," the younger man replied smoothly, trying to look innocent (and failing).

There was a small sound from JJ, and Rossi looked up to see that the corner of her mouth was threatening to curl into a grin as well. He glanced at the others—Hotch was smiling, Reid was looking down at the ground, trying not to smile, and Blake seemed amused.

They all knew. The realization didn't exactly come as a surprise, especially after Garcia had let it slip that Erin had been the true mastermind behind David's surprise party, but Dave was a little shocked by how well they all seemed to be taking it. Hell, even Blake seemed OK with the new development. He'd expected a little more resistance, a few more quiet warnings from Hotch and Morgan, perhaps even a slightly-betrayed cold shoulder from Alex, but so far, nothing.

JJ must have noticed his confusion, because as Hotch and Reid began climbing the stairs onto the jet, she slipped to the back of the line, next to David. She gave him a shy smile before softly saying, "Regardless of how we feel about her professionally, Erin Strauss is personally good for you. And really, that's all we care about."

She gave his upper arm a light squeeze of reassurance before heading up the steps. He took a moment to consider her words, and he knew that was as close to receiving the team's blessing as Erin would ever get, and he'd take it. Erin's children had accepted him, and now his own little family had given their approval as well. As his mama used to say, It's all coming up roses.

Vienna, Virginia.

David suddenly decided that the smooth plane between Erin's shoulder blades was now his new favorite part of her body (well, maybe it was a close second...or third...).

He was currently stretched out in a lounge chair, enjoying the last rays of the sun and trying not to stare as she crouched next to the edge of the pool, quietly having a conversation with Anna. She was wearing a white halter top with an open back, and after spending most of past weekend outdoors, her skin was beginning to develop a warm glow.

She must have felt his eyes on her, because she looked up and flashed him a quick, shy smile, turning back to say something to Anna, brushing back a wet lock of hair from her daughter's face. Anna took her mother's hand, as if she were telling her mother something very profound, and David smiled.

Apparently the teenager was more adept at subterfuge than David first believed, because suddenly, Anna's grip tightened on Erin's arm and she pushed against the edge, effectively pulling her mother into the water with a shriek.

"Anna Claire!" Erin was above the surface again, mopping the hair from her face. Her youngest child was smart enough to swim out of reach, laughing at her mother's misfortune. She reached the other end of the pool and Christopher gave her a small nod of approval.

Jordan, who'd been dozing in a lounge chair, sat up at the commotion, grinning when she saw what had happened.

"Here, Mom," the red head stood, grabbing a nearby towel and meeting Erin at the ladder.

"I've lost a shoe," Erin announced, quickly spotting it beneath the surface and diving to retrieve it. She tossed both flip-flops back onto the concrete before pulling herself up the ladder, gratefully taking the beach towel from Jordan. She turned back to give her youngest daughter a dark look, "I know where you sleep, young lady."

Anna didn't seem too concerned, and David fought back a grin at the scene before him (though his grin was of a slightly different nature—Erin wasn't wearing a bra and her shirt was white and apparently the water was very cold). That lovely sight quickly disappeared beneath the towel, and with one last long-suffering shake of her head, Erin disappeared back into the house.

"You should probably go check on her," Jordan informed him as she walked past his lounge chair, en route to her own.

David took a moment to study the younger woman's expression—there were still moments when he felt like Erin's children were testing him, searching for answers to unspoken questions, and this felt like one of those unknown tests.

However, Jordan didn't have that usual gleam in her eye as she sat down. She simply looked at him, waiting for his response. She was giving him an excuse to have a moment alone with Erin, and with it came some odd acknowledgment that she understood how much he needed a little healing time with the blonde.

"I suppose you're right," he stood, thankful for the chance to slip away for a few minutes.

Jordan's smirk was eerily similar to her mother's as she dryly remarked, "I am my mother's child. Of course I'm right."

He laughed at the quip before slipping back into the silent house, to the closed door of Erin's bedroom. He found her in the large master bathroom, shivering as she pulled off the wet clothes and threw them on the beach towel, which was now on the tile floor.

"Surely the water wasn't that cold, bella."

She jumped at the sound of his voice, clutching her chest, "Jesus H. Christ, David, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

He merely grinned in response, stepping into the bathroom and grabbing another towel from the ornate metal rack, gently wrapping her in it. She gratefully took the towel, drying off her body before turning her attention to her hair. She could feel him still standing behind her, could feel the warmth of his body and that strange familiar zinging under her own skin that always alerted her of his presence.

"Y'okay?" She asked quietly, taking a moment to meet his gaze through the mirror.

"I am," he answered truthfully, and she gave a curt nod at the reply, wrapping the towel around her body again before turning to face him. She smiled, raising up on the balls of her bare feet to kiss his jaw.

"I missed you," she admitted softly, her hands cupping the sides of his face. She bit her lip before adding, "I missed you more than ever, this last time. I think I'm addicted to you, David Rossi."

"I've been told I have that effect on women." He shrugged nonchalantly, and this earned him a light guffaw and a spat on the shoulder as Erin rolled her eyes and sashayed back into the bedroom. He followed, leaning against the doorframe as he watched her sift through her dresser drawers, looking something suitable to wear. These were the moments in which he found her the most captivating—when she was engaged in simple, mundane things, completely unaware of the way she moved or the little expressions that rolled across her classical features, so unabashedly herself that he felt like a voyeur. This was the side of Erin Strauss that had been locked away from him for so long, and David never took these glimpses into daily life with Erin for granted.

She tossed some clothes onto the bench at the end of her bed and grabbed a bra from another drawer before turning back to the bench. The lovely, smooth space between her shoulder blades was exposed, calling to him again, and this time, he answered, moving forward to gently place his hands on her upper arms as his mouth found purchase on the freckled skin. He felt the slight intake of her breath at the feel on his warm mouth on her cool skin, and he smiled. Her flesh was cold and still damp and tasted of salt water; with her tousled hair and eyes the color of the sea, she was his own Venus reborn, more perfect that Boticellli's variation, more human and more fire and wit and everything that spoke to the depths of David Rossi's soul.

His lips continued their worship, moving further up, to the nape of her neck. He grinned as he heard her try to control her breathing.

"David, I can't think when you do that," she tried to sound reprimanding, but failed miserably. Her hands were already reaching up, caressing his head, pulling him closer to her, silently urging him to continue.

"I've missed you, too, bella," he informed her, smiling again when he heard her give a huff at the loss of his mouth on her skin. His hands snaked around to cup her breasts and she leaned back, relishing the solid feel of his chest.

"I've got to get dressed," she reminded him sadly. "The kids are still outside."

Now it was his turn to sigh as he released her, taking a seat on the bench as he watched her quickly get dressed. Once she was clothed, she stepped between his knees, resting her arms on his shoulders as she leaned forward, "Anna leaves for her week with Paul tomorrow morning. We'll have the whole weekend to ourselves."

He grinned at the promise, giving her ass a quick swat as they made their way back to the pool. She merely shot him a warning look, though it was less of a reproach and more of a way to make him smile even more, because he could be like a naughty child sometimes, delighting in the fact that he'd made her angry.

They exited through the French doors again and David took a deep breath, relishing the balmy evening air. He generally didn't consider himself a domestic man, but the scene before him filled him with a gentle happiness—Chris and Anna sloshing around in the pool, Jordan asleep on the lounge chair, Erin walking barefoot across the freshly-mown grass. His blonde Aphrodite turned back to him, offering another smile over her shoulder, and that simple action was enough to make his heart sing again.

JJ was right. Erin Strauss was good for him, in ways that he'd never even imagined. The simple sensation of her touch could calm his bones or ignite his blood, her glances and small smiles could fill him with the deepest happiness, her dry jokes and quick wit kept him on his toes, and though they'd known each other for almost three full decades, she never failed to surprise him.

This wasn't his house. These weren't his children. But the woman at the center of this quiet little universe was his, the lover of his soul and the spark of his lungs. And that was enough. Oh, yes, that was surely enough.

Quantico, Virginia.

This time, Hotch didn't ask why Spencer Reid was already in the office at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning. Today was the day that their RSVP theory would be proven, in one way or another.

Spencer practically sprinted towards his unit chief, his body language telling Hotch that their theory had indeed been correct.

"There was an item found at each dump site," he spoke quickly, even faster and higher-pitched than usual. "A soccer ball, a kid's cup from a restaurant, and a text book. They've been dusted for prints, and local PD has already shipped the items back to Quantico. They'll be in our lab by tomorrow."

"I suppose it'd be too much to ask for a positive ID on any of the finger prints," Hotch knew better than to be hopeful. Again, Spencer's expression answered before his mouth did.

"There's so many prints on each item...the local labs are running the prints now, but so far, there haven't been any matches."

"Any idea what they could mean?" Hotch referred to the items.

"Not yet," Spencer admitted sadly. "There's got to be something we're missing, some kind of key that makes them all connect."

Vienna, Virginia.

Erin Strauss smiled at the slight twinge in her muscles as she pulled out another stubborn weed from the dark earth of the flower bed, blushing at the realization that David had actually made her pull a muscle the night before. Anna had left yesterday morning, and so last night had been a celebration of a week's worth of passion that had been put on-hold by work and familial obligations. It had been worth every second of the soreness she felt this morning.

It was their first weekend together—although David had to go into the office to consult on a few conference calls, they would reconvene later that evening at his house, and tomorrow would be a blissful day shared just between the two of them. They were both almost giddy at the prospect, and Erin was amazed at how something so simple as a day spent together could hold so many promises and moments of joy.

She was supposed to be off today as well. Of course, that hadn't stopped all and sundry from calling her cell every five minutes with minor emergencies, constantly interrupting her attempts at waging war against the weeds in her flower beds.

Her phone buzzed again, and Erin let out another frustrated sigh, ripping another herbaceous invader from the ground before removing her gardening gloves. She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket, answering with a tart, "Strauss."

"Wow. You sound absolutely cheerful." Carrington seemed completely unfazed by her boss' tone.

"Do you people not understand the simple concept of a day off?" Erin sighed, sitting back on her heels as she sadly surveyed her lack of progress. "It's not a hard concept to grasp, really—when I say that I'm off for the day, it means that I am not working. And if I am not working, then it means that you shouldn't call me to discuss work-related matters. Is that difficult to comprehend, Carrington?"

"How do you know that I wasn't calling just to talk dirty to you?"

This response made Erin laugh. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Well, your earlier snippiness has officially ruined your chances of receiving an obscene phone call today," Carrington informed her.

"And my heart aches at the loss."

"It should."

"What's up?"

"Do you remember how you told me to forward all incoming mail—"

"You don't have to ask me that every time you get mail for the BAU, Carrington—I'm old but I'm not dotty; of course I remember. Get to the point." Erin felt a flutter of fear in her stomach, which she quickly replaced with irritation (because she could deal with anger, it made her stronger and harder, made things easier to handle, unlike fear, which made her weak and scared and uncertain and completely useless).

"There's another envelope today." Carrington spoke hesitantly, knowing that the news was not welcome. "No return address, postmarked from D.C."

"I'll be there in half an hour."

Quantico, Virginia.

Dora Carrington thought she might die of shock when Erin Strauss showed up in light blue linen pants and a casual white linen shirt, still smudged from her morning spent in the dirt, with sandals on her feet and her hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. Dora was certain that it was the first time that she'd ever seen Erin without makeup—during the entire eight years that she'd known the section chief, she'd never seen Erin looking anything less than perfectly coiffed and coutured, which was nothing like the woman who practically rushed into her office this morning.

"Where is it?" Her boss didn't waste time with pleasantries.

The receptionist immediately produced the envelope, holding her breath as Erin moved into her office, shutting the door behind her.

With trembling hands, Erin found her letter opener and quickly sliced open the envelope. Her inner investigator warned that she shouldn't touch the contents without wearing gloves, but when she peered in and saw what was inside, she couldn't help it. Slowly, she removed a stack of photographs—in black and white, just like the ones of the BAU team. The problem was that it wasn't the faces of the team members staring back at her.

The first photo was Henry, Agent Jareau's son, smiling up at his mother as they walked across some playground. The next was Jack Hotchner, playing soccer. While these first two photos filled her with absolute dread, it was the third photo which left her completely undone—she reached for her wastebasket and promptly retched into it, her body shaking with fear.

The third was Christopher Strauss, playing his guitar for a group of students as they lounged under a shady tree on his college campus.

He knows he knows he knows he knows.